Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  No, he decided, tentatively shifting his limbs. If he had given up the ghost, he’d be in Hell and it would be decidedly hotter. Which was small consolation, as it felt like a regiment of devils had run roughshod over his head with their cloven hooves.

  “Awake, are you?” asked a voice from somewhere close by in the ink-dark murk.

  Wrexford grunted and managed to sit up. “No thanks to you, Blodgett.” His fingers gingerly felt at the lump behind his left ear. “I assume you have a reason for abducting me rather than slitting my throat.”

  A steel struck flint, taking several tries to spark a candle stub to light.

  “I’ve no idea why you’ve been added to our motley band.” The flame illuminated the face of an utter stranger. Behind him, the earl could vaguely make out several boys huddled up against a brick wall. “But I’d guess it has something to do with The Behemoth.”

  Whoosh-clang, Whoosh-clang. A serpentine swirl of silvery vapor suddenly slithered in from under the heavy planked door. Wrexford winced, realizing the noise and steam were not a figment of his imagination.

  “Who the devil are you?” he asked warily.

  “Benedict Hillhouse,” came the answer. “Who the devil are you?”

  “His Nibs—Lord Wrexford!” answered a reedy voice.

  The earl turned and saw it belonged to a painfully thin boy who looked to be half a head shorter than the two others. He looked familiar . . .

  “Oiy, remember me—I’m Skinny,” volunteered the boy. “A friend o’ Raven ’n Hawk.”

  Skinny. One of the clever little urchins who had proved so useful during the Holworthy investigation. “I’m glad to see you alive, lad,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t fink we’ll be suckin’ wind fer much longer,” said Skinny matter-of-factly, which set the other boys to whimpering. “We seen their phizes, so they ain’t gonna let us get live, once they’ve no more use fer us.”

  “We’ll see about that,” muttered the earl. “How did they come to snatch a clever fellow like you?”

  The boy made a rueful face. “Billy Bones had filched some ale from the tavern where he sweeps up and shared a tipple wiv me while we wuz rolling dice. So I wuz bosky when a cove arsked me iffen I wanted te make a shilling by helping ’im carry some coal te his wagon. Udderwise I wudda been smart enough te smell a rat. Before I knew it, he whacked me in the brainbox, an’ well, here I be.”

  “Don’t fret, lad. The game isn’t over yet,” said Wrexford, and then turned back to Benedict. “You’ve led us on a merry chase, Mr. Hillhouse. I take it you’re not part of the plot to steal Ashton’s invention.”

  “Bloody hell, no!” exclaimed Benedict. He quickly added, “How is Octavia? Is she—”

  “Safe and well,” he assured.

  “Thank God.” Benedict pulled a face. “To think we were so blind! We suspected the widow—and perhaps you—of nefarious doings, only to miss the obvious suspect. We should have immediately thought of Geoffrey Blodgett. He’s always felt he’s been dealt an unfair hand by Lady Luck. For years, he’s simmered with resentment that he didn’t have money, privilege, fortune.” Another grimace. “And now I know why.”

  Wrexford frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s Blackstone’s bastard,” replied Benedict. “But for a piece of paper, he would be the marquess’s heir. He’s a month older than Lord Kirkland, but born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  “Kirkland’s dead,” interjected the earl.

  “Oh, yes, Geoffrey has boasted of that. He comes in every day to taunt me with the diabolical details of how clever he and his father have been.” Benedict shook his head. “He’s always been an arrogant sot, though he hid it well from Eli. It defies all sense of decency that a father would conspire to kill his own son, but apparently Blackstone and Geoffrey are bound by morals as well as blood.”

  “The marquess knows Blodgett murdered his half brother?”

  “Aye, it was at his orders that Kirkland was killed. Apparently he was wheedling the widow for money—I don’t know why—and Blackstone was furious that it would interfere with his own plan. Which, by the by, is to patent Eli’s innovation as their own—”

  “Yes,” interrupted the earl. “We figured that out. However, we assumed it was you and the viscount, and that you’d be selling the idea to McKinlock, as he has the money and means to manufacture it.”

  Benedict flashed a rueful smile. “Lud, I should have thought of that,” he said dryly. “But no, it’s the marquess and Geoffrey. They will go through the outward signs of mourning Eli, while they secretly build a prototype based on his innovations. Geoffrey is very skilled with mechanical devices, and his expertise with steam will make it plausible to most people that he came up with the idea on his own.”

  “The key is in filing the patent,” mused Wrexford. “The one who claims it first has the great advantage.”

  “Precisely,” agreed Benedict. “They are betting on the fact that Mrs. Ashton will flounder in trying to run the mill. Geoffrey, of course, will use his guile to see to it that things go awry. Eli’s investors will be convinced by Blackstone to back a new steam engine company—run by Blackstone, of course—as Ashton’s company will be seen as worthless with a woman at the helm.”

  The earl shifted, trying to dispel the lingering muzziness in his head. “By the by, Mrs. Ashton is not an enemy. She has always been completely loyal to her husband and his work. Miss Merton will explain all the details, but she and the widow have reconciled their misconceptions of each other. They believe the motivation for the heinous murders is the fact that Ashton was planning on using the profits from the patent for improving the lives of his workers rather than lining the pockets of already wealthy men.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” confirmed Benedict. “Blackstone lusts for money, though he’s already a very rich man. However, from what I’ve gleaned from the talk here, it’s also a lust for power and establishing a legacy for the ages. Geoffrey is smart, ambitious and ruthless—exactly the sort of son Blackstone yearned for. Together, they dream of becoming titans of the British economy. The world is changing, trade is expanding around the globe. They intend to dominate it.”

  Their own empire within an empire, thought Wrexford.

  “Though there does seem to be some friction between them,” added Benedict. “I overheard a rather heated argument yesterday. Blackstone was furious that Blodgett killed a second radical agitator. Said he was getting too bloodthirsty, and that too many bodies would wreck all their plans.”

  The earl rubbed at his still-throbbing skull. A great many pieces of the puzzle were finally fitting together. And yet . . .

  “So,” he asked slowly, “what is it they need from you?”

  And what is it they need from me?

  “Ah, yes, why are we enjoying the comforts of their hospitality?” Benedict cracked his knuckles. “If you notice, our hands aren’t bound. That’s because they need our skill to—”

  A rap on the door cut off his words, followed by a gruff order. “Stand back!” Metal scraped against metal as the lock released and the hinges pivoted.

  Wrexford squinted as a blade of lantern light hit him square in the face.

  “I see you’re awake, Lord Wrexford.” Blodgett, still armed with a brace of pistols and accompanied by the brute with the cudgel, motioned for the earl to rise. “Come with me.”

  * * *

  Charlotte forced herself to fight off the fear taking hold of her heart. She must think. Think!

  Her guess had been right, but it had come a heartbeat too late. But at least the enemy was now known, she reasoned, and Raven’s rushed explanation of the earl’s abduction offered some faint thread of hope.

  The boy had managed to hide himself and watch as Blodgett’s accomplice had found a hackney and, with jesting comments about their drunken friend, maneuvered the earl into the cab. With a clear description of the vehicle, there was, she assured herself, a good chance that through their network o
f street urchins and night creepers they would be able to track it to its final destination. After all, there must be a reason they were keeping the earl alive . . .

  She looked up and met Raven’s grim gaze.

  “I’m gonna rouse Hawk, and we’ll spread the word on what we’re looking fer,” he said, a note of defiance edging his voice.

  “You’re hurt,” she replied, though there was little force behind her words.

  “Bugger that,” he retorted. “We ain’t gonna leave him in the lurch.”

  No, we ain’t.

  “We’ll set up a command post here,” said McClellan to Raven. “If anyone has something to report, have them send it here. When you and your brother finish making your rounds, return here—no, on second thought, you must stop and inform Tyler of what has happened, and have him alert Mr. Sheffield. Then return here at once. Mrs. Sloane may need you.”

  Raven nodded and dashed off for the stairs before any protest could be raised.

  “Thank you,” said Charlotte simply. The maid’s show of calm, quick-witted competence helped steady her own nerves. A plan of her own was now taking shape. “I must head to Mr. Henning’s surgery.” Raven had told her about the rendezvous with Griffin. Though she dreaded what it might entail, there was really no choice.

  She had always known that her recent decision to change her life might threaten her hard-won independence.

  * * *

  “Isn’t science beautiful?”

  Wrexford stood at the edge of the cavernous room and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of pistons through a silvery scrim of mist.

  “It’s just a small test model of the new condenser,” explained Blodgett. “The actual prototype engine, our beautiful Behemoth”—he gestured at a huge, hulking silhouette at the far end of the room—“awaits just a few more refinements before we fire it up.”

  “Impressive,” answered the earl, his gaze straying to the two sweaty, soot-streaked boys feeding coal into the firebox of the test model. “Save for the fact that it’s fueled by blood.”

  “Oh, come, we’ve heard you’re not a sniveling sentimentalist, Wrexford,” scoffed Blodgett. “Progress rarely comes without a price. Though in this case, it was naught but a pittance.”

  “You hold life so cheap?” he asked.

  “Three of the men were worthless,” countered his captor. “And Ashton had outlived his usefulness. He would have frittered away his genius, rather than building on it.”

  Wrexford didn’t bother arguing further on ethics. Like Blodgett, he preferred to put his creativity to practical use.

  How to stop the dastards? Preferably with a plan that saved the lives of Hillhouse, Skinny and the other captives—as well as his own.

  “You take a coldly pragmatic view of the world, I see,” he murmured.

  “And so, I trust, do you,” said Blodgett, “once you’ve applied your usual steel-sharp logic to the matter.”

  “I think you ought to go ahead and tell me why I’m here.”

  Blodgett smiled, perhaps sensing a kindred soul. “We’re offering you an opportunity to help forge the future. And reap a handsome profit in the bargain.”

  Wrexford moved closer to the working model and took a closer look at its mechanics. “Tell me more.”

  “I knew most of the plans for Ashton’s innovation, but he became secretive and a few crucial details about the valves were missing. We’ve convinced Hillhouse to share them.” The smile grew more sardonic. “He has a weakness for Miss Merton.”

  A fatal weakness, no doubt, for both of us if Blodgett gets his wishes.

  “As for your role, we’ve just forced an alarming fact out of Hillhouse. The boiler for the prototype is made with the wrong type of iron for the amount of pressure that will be generated. We know you worked with Ashton on the composition of iron for his previous boiler. We need your expertise in chemistry to create the right formula for this one. And time is of the essence. We’ve a very rich man from one of the German principalities coming to see a demonstration of The Behemoth in a week. His investment is the first cog in building our empire.”

  “I’d need a proper laboratory and furnace,” said the earl. He allowed a small pause. “Assuming I agree to help you.”

  “It’s already been assembled in one of the other rooms in this building. There’s also a forge and furnace room, as the building was formerly used for making repairs to naval armaments,” replied Blodgett. “I’ve stocked it with coke and iron ore for the smelting process.”

  That explained the tidal smells mingling with the odor of burning coal. They must be near the river.

  “As for agreeing, we’re aware that you’re known for being impervious to emotion. You’ve no close friends, no paramours. You are, in a nutshell, a man without a heart.”

  The earl shrugged. “A vastly overrated organ when it comes to sentiment, though a rather efficient pump.”

  “However . . .” His captor’s smile turned feral. “My father sent some of his minions to inquire around your country estate. It seems there is an elderly nanny by the name of Miss Beckworth settled in a snug little cottage. Word is, she raised you and your younger brother, and served as a source of solace when your mother fell victim to influenza, especially to the dear, departed Thomas. He was particularly fond of her, wasn’t he?”

  No secrets are safe. Charlotte’s frequent warning echoed inside Wrexford’s head. For an instant, he held back any outward reaction, and then thought better of it. Two could play at cat and mouse games. Let Blodgett think he had touched a raw nerve.

  Satisfaction sparked in Blodgett’s gaze as Wrexford let anger tighten his features. “Your tenants natter away about how kind you are to the old hag, and how she wants for nothing.” He let out a mournful sigh. “But then, the elderly are fragile. I doubt it would come as no surprise were you to learn she simply stopped breathing in her sleep one night.”

  “Your depravity knows no bounds, does it?” he said softly.

  “None at all,” said his captor with an unrepentant laugh. “So, milord, do we have an agreement?”

  “Have someone find me a pot of coffee,” growled the earl, quickly thrusting aside all emotion to think of how to turn the situation to his advantage. “Then show me to the laboratory.”

  * * *

  A nervous twist of the knob turned the lamp’s flame down to a bare flicker, setting the yawing shadows to dancing higher and darker on the far wall. After re-angling her chair, Charlotte sat and pulled her hat down even lower on her brow.

  Dare she hope that Henning’s idea would work? The chances were...

  Wrexford would of course be able to calculate the exact odds if he was here. But he wasn’t, and she would likely never hear his infuriating drawl again unless they could engineer a miracle.

  Science gave short shrift to the supernatural. In art, however, magic was acknowledged as an integral part of imagination. One had to have faith.

  From behind the closed door, she heard the scuff of steps and voices. Her insides gave a lurch. Henning’s rough Scottish burr rubbing up against the clipped growl of Griffin, the taciturn Bow Street Runner.

  He was, alas, no fool. Which was, in this case, a two-edged sword.

  The latch clicked, and Charlotte’s nerves jumped again.

  “I don’t see why we’re playing addlepated charades, Henning.” Griffin’s voice was suddenly clearer. “If you’ve an informant who knows something, just bloody well bring him front and center and have him spit it out.”

  “I told you, Wrexford has made a solemn promise to Phoenix that the lad’s identity will remain a secret.” The door was open but Henning’s stocky body was barring entrance to the room. “The earl depends on him for information, so unless you give us your word you’ll abide by our terms, Phoenix will disappear out the back exit. He adamantly refuses to have his face or voice known to Bow Street.”

  Griffin hesitated, then surrendered with a grumbled oath. “Bloody hell—yes, I agree. Don’t make me regre
t it.”

  “You stay here.” Henning indicated a chair by the door and waited until the Runner seated himself before continuing on to Charlotte. “Never fear, lassie. You’re naught but a dark shape from back there,” he whispered. “I’ve explained about the deciphered note and the fact that Blackstone and Blodgett are the culprits. Naturally, Griffin has a number of questions, but if you just follow our plan, and let me relay your answers to him instead of speaking up for yourself, we should come through this unscathed.”

  Charlotte was grateful to Henning for thinking of a way to keep her from being unmasked as a woman. She had been in no state of mind to think of protecting herself.

  Wasting no time, Griffin began his questioning. “Tell me about the earl’s abduction,” he demanded.

  Charlotte repeated exactly what Raven had told her, which Henning dutifully relayed. The Runner, she saw, was making notes.

  “Describe the hackney—the color, the horses, any detail that might help identify it . . .”

  For the next ten minutes, he continued to pepper her with queries. By saying certain things had been told to her by Tyler—as she couldn’t very well admit to having firsthand knowledge of them herself—Charlotte was able to pass on some vital information. Whether Griffin would take the word of a street urchin was impossible to know. But his instincts were good and he had shown himself to be a man dedicated to bringing criminals to justice.

  And the Runner and Wrexford had developed a mutual respect, despite their differences. She trusted he would put all his efforts into helping find the earl.

  “I have nothing further to ask,” Griffin finally said. “For now.”

  “Phoenix has spread word throughout the city about the hackney,” offered Henning. “If any of the people who inhabit the streets saw it pass, we’ll hear of it and send word to you.”

  Griffin gave a grunt as he rose and snapped his notebook shut. “Let us hope, for His Lordship’s sake, that the brat’s network of informants is half as good as the one run by the infernal A. J. Quill.”

  CHAPTER 27